


is this how you'll remember me?

by Slumber



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Coping, Gen, Ghosts, Loss, Past Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-05
Updated: 2020-10-05
Packaged: 2021-03-08 01:07:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,235
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26807083
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Slumber/pseuds/Slumber
Summary: The way Osamu figures, he's probably lost his mind.It's that or his brother's ghost is haunting him, butghosts, really, Osamu?Osamu is haunted by his brother's ghost. (It's kind of nice.)
Relationships: Miya Atsumu & Miya Osamu
Comments: 78
Kudos: 393
Collections: Haikyuu fics that made me cry, Miya Twins Week 2020





	is this how you'll remember me?

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by [this phenomenal fanart](https://twitter.com/anta_baka00/status/1276221630109245440?s=20) by [@anta_baka00](https://twitter.com/anta_baka00), which has haunted me (har har) since. 
> 
> Please do mind the tags and warnings. Thank you!
> 
> For Miya Twins Week Day 7: Free Day

Osamu's first day back after the funeral would be agonizing if he paid attention. The entirety of his class falls into a hush when he walks in, the low whispers rising as he settles into his desk, the furtive glances not as subtle as his classmates think they are being. The smiles hesitant and uncertain—pitiful, not kind. 

It's a good thing Osamu doesn't pay attention.

He sits through the classes he'd fallen behind in, takes out the homework he missed. Stares at black strokes on white pages until they blur into gray. He blinks, focuses his gaze, studies the words written out.

Still, he parses no meaning out of them.

"Osamu." The pressure on his shoulder is gentle and careful, his name uttered in a low, even voice. Suna's hovering above him, muttering something from the way his lips are moving, but the sound he makes is garbled and indistinct and far away.

"Huh?"

"I asked," Suna says, "if you brought lunch. Figured we could eat on the roof. Or something."

Lunch time. Osamu glances at the clock—it had been four hours already? "Ah, right," he says. They'd shared a class the last two years, he and Suna. Whenever they'd eaten together it was by coincidence; they'd never made it a point to hang out intentionally before. Suna doesn't have to start now. 

"Yeah, we still got about half an hour, so—" Suna glances aside, glaring at a group of friends whispering nearby. He rubs the back of his neck, the universal sign of someone in an awkward position. In this case, someone who's held out a hand they don't want you taking. 

So Osamu spares him the trouble. "You go on ahead, I need to get food from the cafeteria," he says.

"Uh. I can wait—"

"No, it's fine." 

Osamu watches Suna slink out of the room before he picks up his bento and heads out to the courtyard. Finds an empty tree, sits cross-legged behind it. Pulls out the simple tin and takes a look at the lunch his mother made. Pork cutlet, rolled omelettes, steamed vegetables and rice. His favorite on any given day, usually, like any food would have been.

He's still looking by the time the bell rings, snapping him back to the present. He hasn't touched a bit of it. 

He pulls himself up to stand, heads back to the classroom. Classes, homework, indiscernible pages. 

He finds a bin on the way home. Dumps the contents of his bento in it. When his mother asks, he says it was good, thank you, and he's still too full for dinner.

* * *

Osamu shows up at volleyball practice not because he has to—they've officially retired, it's the second years' team now—but because there is nothing else to do, with the days growing longer and time at home stretching as they do, in drawn-out moments of quiet, punctuated by clumsy attempts at normalcy.

But silence descends upon the previously noisy gym as soon as he walks in, and he almost regrets this choice more.

"You look like you've seen a ghost," he says. When the players just exchange uneasy glances at each other, he adds, "Too soon?"

Coach Kurosu shoots everyone a warning look. "You didn't come here to practice with us, did you?"

He shrugs. "Just came over to watch, Coach." And then, just because he knows it isn't: "I assume that's okay?"

Being around grief does funny things to people. Osamu watches the slightest crease on his old coach's forehead, the look he shares with one of the other assistants, before he eventually nods. "Make yourself comfortable."

"Thanks. I'll just sit over there," Osamu tells him before he climbs up to the top of the bleachers.

The awkwardness of his presence doesn't go away immediately, but it lessens in the face of the serving drills Coach Kurosu puts the team through. Starters in position at both ends of the court, second stringers picking up after them. It falls into a rhythm: the trill of a whistle, the squeak of rubber on wood, the clap of palm on leather ball, the smack of leather on floor. Trill, squeak, clap, smack. Again, and again, and again. 

Osamu exhales. Closes his eyes for a moment. 

"Riseki's jump serve is looking pretty sharp." 

Osamu's eyes fly open. Beside him, Atsumu's wrinkling his nose in thought, his gaze glued to the court. He's leaning forward, elbow on his thigh, chin on his palm, finger tapping his cheek. He turns to Osamu, amber eyes liquid warm. "Don't ya think?"

Osamu nods. "Sure."

"What's the point of comin' over here if ya ain't even gonna pay attention, 'Samu?" Atsumu asks, gaze sharp and keen as he studies the players. 

"Maybe I came here to get away from you."

Atsumu snorts. "That's rich," he says. "Minato's got good form. Ya think he'll be startin' next year?"

"That's up to the coaches."

"He had wicked accuracy. Bet he does."

"Yeah, why not."

Osamu listens as Atsumu runs through every player's strengths and what he thinks they have to work on next year, the tapping on his chin growing more restless by the minute, like he can't wait to get out there and play himself. 

"Bet if we asked nicely, Coach would let us—"

The whistle blows, interrupting Atsumu as a break is called, the players dispersing to grab water and towels to refresh themselves. Riseki, who'd received the captaincy recently, makes his way up to Osamu with an extra bottle of Pocari for him. 

"No thanks," Osamu says. "Not like I've been moving around like you have."

"Okay. You alright up here?" Riseki asks, checking on him like a good captain should. He probably picked that up from Kita, whose messages Osamu has resolutely been ignoring. 

Osamu glances to his side. Atsumu is gone. "Yeah. I am."

* * *

They buried Atsumu on a Wednesday.

Osamu doesn't remember much of the funeral—not what the priest says, how much his mother cries, how tightly his father's grip on his shoulder becomes, who shows up to offer their condolences. 

He doesn't remember much of it at all. Doesn't particularly care to.

It is the moment later, after—when they come back home—that sears itself into his memory. The smell of spring rain thick in the air as they get out of the car, the heavy quiet of the empty house they enter, the ringing silence that greets them, that they bring home with them. 

"If you would like," his mother offers, her voice trembling and watery, as it hasn't stopped being since the call from the hospital, "you can sleep in the guest room."

"It's fine," Osamu says. "I can—it's fine."

He doesn't wait for his parents to protest. Or to ask him how he is. He makes his way up, takes off the tie and the suit and the too-starchy dress shirt and exchanges them for something soft and gray and well-worn from his closet. He means to get on his bunk, he does, but just looking at the climb saps him of all his energy. He slides down to the floor, knees up, arms folded over them, forehead hitting his arms. 

"Oy," Atsumu says, leaning over him. "What're ya mopin' around there for?" 

* * *

The way Osamu figures, he's probably lost his mind. 

It's that or his brother's ghost is haunting him, but _ghosts_ , really, Osamu? He's already had to sit down with someone from the school to talk about things like coping mechanisms and defense mechanisms and why it's okay if he's not ready to talk just yet, it's all part of the process, blah blah blah. 

They're already worried about him, and now his dead brother's hanging around their room and showing up at school and following him home.

Osamu glances at the shop windows, catches his reflection there for a moment before he turns to look behind him, where Atsumu's yelling at him to wait up. 

Osamu walks faster. Atsumu takes longer strides. The windows reflect only one brother. 

"Ya in a hurry to go home that much?" Atsumu asks, finally falling into step beside him. Osamu glances at him—he can't, no matter how he tries, see through him. One point against the ghost theory. 

"I'm in a hurry to get away from you."

"Yeah yeah, so ya say," Atsumu says, sliding his hands in the pockets of his pants. He hasn't got a school bag, like Osamu does. Is that a ghost thing or a lack of Osamu's imagination thing? He squints his eyes at Atsumu's side, but a bag does not magically appear. Hm. One point back for the ghost theory. " _Samu_."

"What."

Atsumu huffs, his gaze skittering away. "I don't wanna go home yet."

"Sounds like a you problem."

"Why are ya so— _urgh_." 

Osamu sighs. "Alright, I'll bite. Why not?"

Atsumu keeps walking. He hunches away from Osamu, and Osamu thinks, what part of his imagination would want to be giving him more problems? 

"Okay, fine, if you tell me, we don't have to go home yet," he promises.

Atsumu glances sideways at him. "They're being weird," he says finally. "Don'tcha think? They won't talk to me, it's like I did something wrong, and I don't like the _mood_ there. It's so— _urgh._ "

"Ah."

Atsumu scuffs his shoe against the ground and lets out a sigh. "Why can't we keep practicin' volleyball instead. Hey, next time ya should grab a ball and then we can—"

"Dunno about that, but alright, fine, let's not go home yet," Osamu tells him, veering off their way home. Atsumu follows. He's not sure where they'll go, but the thing is— "I don't really wanna either, anyway."

* * *

The hauntings aren't, like, 24/7 or anything. There will be days when Osamu _is_ all alone, at home and at school, his commute in between undisturbed. 

But some days, at pretty random moments—like when he's coming back from brushing his teeth, or he's walking down the hallway to go to the bathroom, or he's passing the gates on his way out—there Atsumu will be.

They don't talk about what happened. Osamu isn't sure if that's his imagination not wanting to bring it up, or Atsumu being polite—scratch that, even in death he ain't ever gonna be polite—or Atsumu not knowing. He definitely doesn't act like he's— 

But that's fine. Osamu doesn't want to talk about it, not even with Atsumu. Maybe especially not with him.

The point is, it isn't always, and Osamu doesn't know when he'll see him next.

So when his father asks if he wants to pick out a new bed he tells him no and makes his way to the top bunk night after night, and when he comes home to find his mother sobbing over a box of Atsumu's clothes he kneels down beside her, places an arm around her shoulders and asks her if it's okay to keep them a little longer. 

"S'my shirt yer wearin'," Atsumu says later. "Ya could've asked first."

Osamu exhales. It's been five days. He'd almost thought— "And ya ever do?" he asks, peering over at Atsumu, who's in such a full blown sulk Osamu almost laughs.

He doesn't, but the corner of his lips twitch. 

It's close enough.

* * *

Suna doesn't avoid the topic forever. 

Osamu's classmates learned early on not to bring it up. The underclassmen on the team are never gonna be able to. Ginjima and Kosaku are in a different class anyway. Aran and Kita text often, Aran more than Kita, but they're busy and away enough Osamu doesn't have to worry.

He assumes Suna knows enough not to say anything at all, but days before graduation, as the two of them are saddled with cleaning duties and they're walking over to throw out the trash, Suna asks: "Did you ever figure out where you were going? For school, I mean."

It had been down to culinary school or business management. Osamu had said, after all, he wanted to do something food-related. "Waseda," he says.

There's a beat of silence before Suna says what he must have immediately thought. "You're taking their scholarship offer?"

"Well they didn't take it back when they learned they'd only be able to get half the pair."

"That wasn't what I—"

Osamu yanks at the trash to take it from Suna's hold, lifting the dumpster lid with one hand and swinging the bag into it with the other. "Then what were ya gettin' at?"

He sees the moment Suna clenches his teeth, the flex of muscle in his jaw. His eyes, usually a steely, unflappable gray, turn soft in a way Osamu's seen too many times from too many people already. It makes Osamu's insides twist up all ugly and wrong. Not Suna. Not like this. "I'm not getting at anything. Thought you said you were done with volleyball, that was all."

Osamu shrugs. "Nothin' wrong with changing my mind."

* * *

"Ya get in a fight with Suna or somethin'?" Atsumu asks him later, on his way home from school. Just pops up out of the blue, walking alongside him like he'd been there the whole time, humming a dumb tune and pushing his tongue up against the inside of his cheek just because.

Osamu wants to hit him in the face to make him stop. He doesn't know if he can, so he doesn't. "Why'd ya ask?"

"Haven't seen ya speakin' to him lately."

"We've been talking the same amount, so I dunno what you mean. I wanna pick up some snacks, let's go to Lawson's, okay?"

"Yeah, sure," Atsumu says, and drops it.

* * *

Osamu bleaches his hair the week before he moves to Tokyo. He spends too long looking at the mirror, where his hair is parted the other way around, the right way around, but the eyes don't look quite right. Atsumu's bottle of piss-yellow blond is still sitting half-full in the cabinet. He goes as far as picking it up, under pretense of reading the label. He doesn't chuck it in the trash, but he figures he's not going to pack it with him anyway.

He finds a baseball cap to hide his hair under, then he heads out to look for plain black dye. He'll just grow it out back to its natural black and keep it that way.

He's outgrown gray, anyway.

* * *

One more point against the ghost theory: Atsumu follows him to Tokyo.

Not that he'd have been able to help with the unpacking, but it's a little irritating when Osamu shoves the last box out of the way, wanders over to the dorm kitchen to figure out what he can make, hungry and sweaty, only to close the cupboard and find Atsumu casually cocking his head at him.

"What'cha makin'?" 

"Fried rice, I guess," Osamu says, _what are you doing here_ at the tip of his tongue before he swallows it down. 

Atsumu hums. "Thought ya were set on Tsuji. But Waseda's pretty cool too."

Osamu fires up the stove, wonders how he'd even begin to bring this up to a licensed professional. Is it normal to process loss like this? Is this just a manifestation of his conscience? "Waseda has a strong business program, and they don't come cheap. I can go to culinary school any time after if I want."

Atsumu just grins. "Knew ya wouldn't stop playing just yet," he says.

Osamu didn't think ghosts were the type to gloat, but that's his brother for you. 

* * *

His first day at the university team practice, the coach asks everyone why they're here and what they hope to achieve. Nobody's answer is particularly original, and none of Osamu's real answers would be acceptable—because the scholarship was still on the table, because it would take him away from Hyougo, because it's not like he _hates_ volleyball—so he just copies someone else's. 

The coach says nothing about it, just nods like he's made his point, then moves on to barking out orders for warmups.

"Miya," he calls out once the first years have run their laps around the gym. He's frowning at his clipboard and scratching at the bald spot on his head. "Are you the setter?"

Osamu's entire body tenses at the question, his blood running ice cold and freezing him from the inside out. He swallows down the _no_ tangled in the back of his throat, lets it sink, heavy and useless, to the pit of his stomach. "Do you need setters, Coach?" he asks.

* * *

Osamu likes Tokyo. He expects to feel, at most, ambivalent about it—chalk it up to the conflicted feelings of growing up in the countryside around elders who tsked around city folk and classmates who gaped, wide-eyed and awed, at a fox-eyed transfer student who shrugged off questions about the city like it was no big deal at all.

"Ya play any sports though?" Atsumu had asked. He hadn't cared if Suna had ever been to Tokyo Tower either. The way he figured it, Tokyo had about nine million people in it, and Amagasaki only a fraction of that. There's more kids like Suna than there are kids like Atsumu, but Suna's tall enough for volleyball, and if he ain't a scrub on the court, then he'll be worth Atsumu's time. 

It's a shit way to decide who becomes your friend, even at thirteen, but at least Atsumu was right about Tokyo. Here Osamu's just one of nine million, and none of his classmates even really know there was ever more than one of him. 

"You don't look like a volleyball player," one of them says, giggling over a cup of overpriced, fancy coffee. He isn't sure what she means by that. He doesn't ask. "How did you get into it?"

Osamu shrugs. "I played when I was a kid."

* * *

"They make ya a starter yet?" Atsumu asks him later, walking back to Osamu's dorm with him, somewhere after Osamu emerges from the convenience store with a bag of meat buns and before he passes by the north gate.

Osamu glances at him. Atsumu's eyeing his duffel bag. He isn't sure why Atsumu never shows up in the gym, but he's noticed Atsumu doesn't always tend to show up when he's around other people. Not that he's complaining. "Gettin' there," he says.

"Lame. When I get better," Atsumu promises, "'M gonna end up making starter before ya do at this rate."

"No ya won't," Osamu says. 

Atsumu laughs. "I'll show ya how it's done, 'Samu."

Osamu doesn't correct him.

* * *

Atsumu, of course, doesn't get better. Not through Osamu's first year of college, not the year after. 

But they don't talk about that.

* * *

Osamu makes the regular lineup his second year on the team, one year later than he knows Atsumu would've made it. They lose three consecutive years of the Intercollegiate Championships to Chuo, but Osamu's surprised when he gets calls from a couple of professional teams anyway. 

"Aren't you coming back home?" His mother sounds even smaller over the phone than she does face-to-face. Osamu's never liked calling. "You know your uncle said you could work at their restaurant here. Learn the ropes that way."

"It's the V.League," Osamu says, like that means anything to either of them.

His mother's voice, when it comes through, is gentle enough it makes him taste bile at the back of his throat. "And it's _you_ , Samu," she reminds him.

Then she really shouldn't have expected anything else.

* * *

Atsumu's showing up less and less. Or Osamu's around other people more and more. It's hard to tell, but it's enough to almost take Osamu by surprise when he comes back home and finds Atsumu cross-legged on his half of the bunk.

"Ya better have some good news," he says.

A couple of Division 2 teams had offered him starting positions. VC Kanagawa did too. The Hornets said they could potentially give him playing time, though they were a stronger team than Kanagawa. 

But the Jackals had open tryouts and Hirakata wasn't far from home and they'd grown up watching Fukatsu dominate the court wearing the Jackals' black and gold. Atsumu had talked about how they'd play for the team since they'd first watched a game live.

"They said they'd let me know within the week," Osamu tells him. He's not sure how well he did. He's not sure, anymore, how good he actually is. (If it were Atsumu, it'd be a no-brainer, the creeping thought slips in, cold and cruel.)

"Ya nervous?" Atsumu asks, cocking his head at him.

Yes. "Fuck no." 

Atsumu snickers. "Go get somethin' to eat, yer face is looking dicey."

"Still a better face than yours," Osamu shoots back, snickering over Atsumu's _It's the same face!_ before he heads down to the kitchen. 

Atsumu's gone when he returns, but there's a voice message from an unknown number in his phone. 

It's from the Jackals.

* * *

"We should visit your brother," Osamu's mom says over breakfast, a few days before he packs up a second time to move out. His stay home has been short, but at least he's not going very far. Forty-five minutes, give or take. "It's been a while."

"It has," Osamu lies, because it doesn't feel like it, not when just this morning he'd woken up to find Atsumu yammering on about how loudly he was snoring before he shuts the bathroom door in Atsumu's face.

He'd rolled his eyes and muttered under his breath, and when he looked up and saw his own face staring back at him from the mirror he realized it wasn't the same face as Atsumu's any longer. 

They'd always carried expressions differently, aside from the superficial distinctions of hair color and style—Atsumu's was always the more expressive, excitable one, Osamu's always been more restrained. But it _was_ the same face. Or it used to be.

Osamu's twenty-two now. Taller and broader and older. He shaves the faint scruff he wakes up with every morning, the line of his jaw more pronounced than when he was seventeen. 

Than the way Atsumu looked at him just a few seconds ago, a high school boy frozen in still-frame.

"'Samu?" His mom's eyes are gentle. Everything about her is. "When would you like to go?"

"I can be ready in a moment," he says. "You're right. It's been a while."

* * *

Atsumu thinks Osamu's studio apartment in Hirakata is a little shitty—Osamu agrees, he's gonna give himself a year to find something better—but it _is_ the Black Jackals. 

"Coolest jersey in all of the V.League," Atsumu says with a satisfied nod. "Best mascot, best fans, and a pretty awesome team."

"Next to the Adlers," Osamu can't resist pointing out. He's not being a jerk. The last two championships back him up on this.

Atsumu shrugs. "Where's the fun in defending?" he asks, his eyes bright and eager. "Yer gonna be the ultimate challengers."

"Gross. That sounds so lame," Osamu says, snorting at the face Atsumu makes. 

"Scrub," he mutters with only half the sulk. "Playing's so much better when ya gotta fight harder for the win, that's all," he adds, the tone of his voice turning soft and wistful. 

Osamu lies back on his couch, pins his gaze to the outdated popcorn ceiling of the apartment. He doesn't get it. He never has. "If you say so."

* * *

"Samu."

Osamu nearly jumps out of his skin, but manages to hold onto the rice balls he'd picked up from the convenience store a block away. It's a month into his first season as a Black Jackal, and between practices and weekend games and regular training, maybe just as long since he last saw Atsumu. Not that he can see him now, either. The studio's small, but it's laid out so the entryway is a longer hallway that curves around a corner onto the main space. He closes the door behind him and walks in. "Yeah?"

Atsumu's back is turned to him, his hands deep in his pockets. He's facing the balcony, the door flung wide open to let the early autumn breeze in while Osamu's clothes hang out to dry outside. 

Osamu's Jackals jersey stands out, a prominent black and gold. On its back, MIYA 7 in bold.

"I'm never playing again, am I?" Atsumu asks.

"What?"

"I know ya heard me." Atsumu turns toward him, but his gaze is unfocused, clouded and dull. "Why not?"

"I—" 

"Is it 'cause I can't get better?" Atsumu's figure, earlier haloed in the afternoon sunlight, now seems to be glowing with it. Osamu can see the skyline through him. 

He's fading again.

The truth lies heavy at the base of Osamu's tongue, bitter and foul, so he swallows it down. "No, of course not, don't be stupid," he says. "You'll be playing again in no time at all, you'll see."

The lie tastes no better. But it smoothens the crease on Atsumu's brow, and when his gaze turns to Osamu's at last, his eyes flicker with something that looks like understanding. 

"Alright." Atsumu smirks, cocksure once more. "Ya better be ready when I do, then."

"Ya bet," Osamu manages. His smile feels as weak as his knees but if Atsumu notices, he doesn't mention it.

* * *

Someday, Atsumu will figure it out. 

One day, Osamu will let him.

But not now.

Not yet.

Not yet.

**Author's Note:**

> ...happy birthday, Miya twins? <.< >.>
> 
> Thank you for making it all the way here, seriously, and for giving this a shot!
> 
> With many, many thanks to anta_baka00 for the inspiration (fun fact: this is actually the [second fic](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25285414) I've been inspired to write based off their art!), dzesi for the beta work (even though this involved MCD ♥), and tau, as always, for reading things first despite knowing nothing about anyone TTwTT ♥
> 
> Kudos and comments are always appreciated ♥ If you liked what you've read, you can [share it on Twitter.](https://twitter.com/slumberish/status/1312782211503063049) I've also written a handful of [other, happier Haikyuu!! fics](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Slumber/works?fandom_id=758208).


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